


That Old Song We Heard When We Were Young

by Jocondite (jocondite)



Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-15
Updated: 2007-05-15
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jocondite/pseuds/Jocondite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end is the beginning; Spencer was sixteen and he'd never had his hands on so much of anyone's skin before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Old Song We Heard When We Were Young

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [to livejournal](http://jocondite.livejournal.com/121563.html).

**v. draw the curtains down (early 2007)**

"Move over," Ryan hissed, "I need to sleep with you, Spence, roll over."

"Mmrgfh."

"My bed's leaking," Ryan said. "-roof. Whatever. Come _on._"

"What?" Spencer asked, squinting, but obeying nevertheless. He was always more tractable when he was half-asleep, something which the others had discovered early on and exploited shamelessly.

"My _bed_. It's all wet." Ryan slipped under the covers, bringing with him a distinct chill from the night air. "Fucking _cabin_ in the fucking _wilderness._"

"This was your idea," Spencer pointed out, but he was too tired to argue. He yawned into his pillow.

Ryan was carefully positioned so that he was lying on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around himself. His shivering sent quivers through the bedclothes.

Spencer really fucking wanted to go back to sleep. The pathetic quaking of the comforter was making that difficult, so he laid a cautious hand on Ryan's back. He could feel the knobs in Ryan's spine, sharp through the thin fabric of his ancient t-shirt. "You're cold."

"No fucking kidding."

"Come here," Spencer sighed, and Ryan relaxed back against him, the stiff set of his spine melting into something more natural, more organic.

"If you snore," Spencer mumbled threateningly into the warm curve of his neck.

"You know I don't." Ryan spoke very quietly; Spencer could barely hear him.

"'m just saying. Sleeping now," he informed him, and slung an arm over Ryan's waist.

Ryan's even breathing filled the room like the insistent drone of a heartbeat, so familiar that Spencer bit his lip.

*

He woke up to an empty bed and filtered strains of sunlight (he'd forgotten to properly close his fucking curtains). He didn't _do_ mornings, not now that they had no schedule to keep.

He wandered down the hall, stood in the doorway of the living room, tiredly rubbing at his hair. He could already hear the sounds of skirmish.

"Look, it's not funny. There's a leak right over my bed. The roof is fucking leaking," Ryan informed Brendon and Jon. "We have a leaky, _substandard_ cabin in the wilderness."

Brendon didn't look up from his phone. "It's a _cabin_ in the _wilderness_, what're you going to do?"

"Brendon, I will punch you through the throat-"

"Oh, I'm not worried," Brendon said, pursing his lips. "You need me, Ryan, you know you do. You need my be-yew-ti-ful voice."

Ryan was sitting beside him, knees pulled up to his chin, scribbling quietly into a notebook and making dire threats simultaneously. Spencer suppressed a smile.

"We could hook something up," Jon said thoughtfully. "If we had to. Like, a speaker system. Ventriloquism."

"No hands in my ass," Brendon said, stern, "and where are those pancakes, Jon Walker? I was promised pancakes. Are you a man of your word, or what?"

Jon shrugged. "Sometimes I am."

"Yeah, but this time?"

"Hey, Ryan," Spencer said, coming forward into the room.

"Oh," Ryan said, looking up, tucking his pen behind his ear. He looked slightly startled at seeing Spencer up so early. "Morning."

"Pancakes!" Brendon said dramatically (which Brendon interpreted as 'loudly'), "I need them, I _require_ them. I'm telling you, I'll die. It'll be horrible and very, very messy."

"Oh, in that case," Jon sighed, when Ryan and Spencer also cast their votes in favor of pancakes. ("And me!" Brendon said hastily, "and me!"). "You're lucky I love you guys," he said good-naturedly. "So lucky."

"But my ceiling comes first," Ryan interrupted. "Do you know how much it sucks to have a soggy bed? Jon, you can fix it, can't you?"

"I can try something with, like, duct tape. That's about the extent of my skills."

"I have skills," Brendon added, grinning. "I was almost a land surveyor! I'm handy."

"I don't trust you with my ceiling," Ryan told him. Brendon's face fell.

"Hey, hey," Jon interrupted, getting up, "Brendon, you can be my assistant, okay? If we can fix it with duct tape, it will be fixed."

"If you don't fix it- " Ryan called after them. He let the sentence trail off into the aether, leaking foreboding, and smiled at Spencer. "If Tweedledum and Tweedledee there don't fix it, I'm crashing in your room again."

"Cool," Spencer said absently, gazing at his phone and trying to _will_ more bars to magically pop into existence with the very force of his stare. "We can drag your mattress in on the floor, if you want."

A pause. "I guess."

"Why were you crashing in my room?" Spencer asked suddenly, looking up. "I thought you would've - you could've shared with Brendon."

"No, I couldn't have." Ryan's long fingers twitched irritably against his knees. "It's still - I couldn't have, okay."

"Yeah. Well, there's Jon."

"He takes up too much room."

"You sound like fucking Goldilocks."

"Fuck you," Ryan said, but he was grinning again. "Are you getting any reception?"

"Some."

"Hmmm." Ryan sounded meditative, but instead of pulling out his sidekick, he just shrugged and flipped a page in his notebook.

For a few minutes, there was relative peace; Spencer watched as the fresh sheet of paper filling up with Ryan's sprawling handwriting, cramped letters set at drunken angles as if thoroughly unrelated to their fellows, the way he always wrote when he was in a hurry to get something down.

From Ryan's bedroom, the sounds of Brendon and Jon wrangling were intermittently audible ("- no, look, just - Brendon, move- " "I'm helping!" "You're really not." "Jon. Jon. _Jon_, how many dentists does it take to change a light bulb? It's important.")

Spencer smiled fondly at the floor. When he glanced back at Ryan, he'd abandoned the notebook and was tapping diligently away at his sidekick, rapid fire on the tiny keys.

He raised an eyebrow, and Ryan smiled, bright and sharp. "I was just messaging someone," and Spencer said into the slight pause hanging in the air, "Oh yeah, _someone_?"

"Don't be a dick," Ryan told him, but he wore the faint smile he got when he was happy and didn't want to share, water it down; that faint little twitch of smugness, of something clasped close to his chest which he wasn't willing to expose.

"You're so _cute_," Spencer drawled. Ryan kicked his ankle.

"Am not."

"You totally are, though."

Ryan ducked his head, soft hair swinging down over his eyes, and Spencer smiled. He wanted Ryan to be happy, and maybe he wouldn't have thought that she could do that, but she did. She made Ryan smile like there was a flashlight switching on behind his eyes, and Spencer could admit graciously that Ryan had made a better choice for himself than Spencer had made for him.

*

"_Ow_, jesus." Brendon cradled his knuckles against his chest, and gave Jon and his spoon a tragic, reproachful stare.

"Keep your fingers out of the batter, then."

"You're mean," Brendon told him, and then "can I have _chocolate chip_ pancakes?"

"Like you need more sugar," Ryan said, and Spencer and Jon traded weary glances as the conversation derailed into a heated debate about the relative merits of blueberry pancakes versus chocolate chip. ("Are you actually in _kindergarten_?" "They, like, stain the batter like spreading bruises, _gruesome._ And that's just, that's totally not something you want to eat, you know? And anyway, like they have fresh blueberries up in the backwoods of fucking Nevada, seriously.")

Jon ignored the squabbling and made little gap-toothed, leering smiley faces out of chocolate chips for Brendon.

"You're the _best_, Jonathan Walker." Brendon clutched his plate and beamed as Jon carefully flipped smiley pancakes onto it from the hot pan.

Once Spencer's were ready, Brendon followed him obediently into the living room. Brendon hated eating by himself.

"Crap," Spencer said, setting his plate down carefully on the coffee table. "Just a second, I'm going to grab a knife and fork."

Jon and Ryan were still standing by the kitchen stove, watching as Ryan's pancakes browned in the pan. Spencer wasn't wearing shoes, so they didn't look up when he padded back in. He was about to say something when Jon laughed quietly, low.

"You've got a little something," he said, sounding amused, "on your cheek, come here," and wiped a smear of batter just under Ryan's eye away with his thumb. Ryan let him, leaning comfortably against him.

Jon's thumb lingering a little too long on Ryan's cheekbone - that's all Spencer saw, really, all there was to see, and he might be fucking paranoid but it was enough to make him draw in his breath, think sickly _fuck, not again._

Jon and Ryan both looked up; Jon snatched his hand away, and inches of respectable space appeared suddenly between them, with a smooth speed that was almost magical.

"Sorry," Spencer said automatically, and then "_Fuck._ Sorry."

"What's up, Spence?" Jon said easily, wiping his hands on his jeans. "You can't have finished those already. If you want more, you'll have to wait until we've had our first round." He squinted at the mixing bowl. "I think we've got enough batter."

"No, I just- " Spencer gestured towards the counter. "Cutlery. I just need to get some."

He grabbed a clashing handful from the drawer and stomped back into the living room. Ryan trailed after him not long after, clutching his breakfast and looking sullen.

"Dude," Brendon said, staring at Ryan's plate. "Your pancakes are all burny."

Ryan shrugged. Spencer stabbed a fork into a mouthful of pancake irritably; in the kitchen, there was clinking as Jon saw to his own breakfast.

Brendon peered at them both. "What's up with you?" He tilted his head at Ryan like an inquisitive magpie. "Ryan. Ryan."

"What?"

"How many Mormons does it take to change a light bulb?"

Ryan used his own fork to viciously spear pieces of pancake. "That depends. How many of them are Brendon Urie?"

"Oh, hey," Spencer broke in, "stop assuming the existence of multiple Brendons right the fuck now. Or touch wood, or something."

Jon ambled in through the doorway, the stupid flower-patterned apron that had come with the place still hanging around his neck. Spencer watched Ryan out of the corner of his eye, but Ryan just continued to look grumpy.

"Shut up, it'd be awesome." Brendon was clearly a fan of the idea. "I could have sex with _me_!"

"And all your dreams would finally come true," Ryan said, and Spencer couldn't tell whether he was going for comedic deadpan or was still bitter.

"Wait, what are Brendon's dreams again?" Jon asked.

"A Disneyland castle of my very own. A pool full of red Jell-O and a pair - no, a _trio_ of hot Swedish girls," Brendon said promptly. "All growly like Maja."

Spencer choked on a mouthful of pancake. "His needs are simple."

*

"It's not," Ryan began. "Look, it's not- "

"I don't care," Spencer said wearily. "I really, really don't. I promise."

"Oh, what_ever_." Ryan's voice had gone all clipped. "I'm telling you, though, it's not-"

"I'm playing Gran Turismo," Spencer told him. "The other controller's working again, if you wanna play."

"You taped it up?"

"Skills."

Ryan huffed quietly; it wasn't quite a snort, too soft and affectionate for that. "Sure."

Spencer kicked his ass three times running, but then Ryan stealthily sideswiped him on the last lap, and his car swerved off the road in an inelegant parabola.

Spencer put the controller down gently and stood up, rolling his shoulders and twisting his head back and forth. "You _suck._"

"Uh-uh," Ryan told him, as Spencer walked over to the window. It was dark out, and he could make out stars through the dusty glass, the brighter vehemence of the moon. "The fact that I just took you out means you're the one who sucks."

"Mmm," Spencer said neutrally, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. There were acres of bush and empty ground spread before them. They had a good view from this window.

"Hey." Ryan came up behind him; he slid an arm around Spencer's waist and rested his head against Spencer's. "We're good, aren't we?"

Spencer looked out over the trees, the faint brilliance of electric lights pinpricks in the distance. "Yeah, Ryan." Ryan's hand slipped into his; his fingers were like ice. "We're good."

 

**iv. the dogs are barking now (early 2006)**

"I'm not going to sleep on the fucking couch listening to them screw again," Brent said through his teeth. "If they want to fuck, _they_ should be the ones on the couch, not keeping us out of our beds. Bunks."

"But we use these couches," Spencer pointed out, and it was pure force of habit causing him to stick up for Ryan, because his heart wasn't in it. He was by no means delirious about spending another night on the bus couches. "At least this way they're not doing it on anything we have to touch."

Brent wrinkled his nose. "I guess that's true. It's still fucking _selfish_, though."

"Yeah," Spencer agreed, flipping through the messages on his phone. Two from her. "It is."

(Weeks since he looked across the room in Chicago, into the brilliant gleam of her eyes, teeth, shining, shining, bracelets around the small bones of her wrists. She bit her lip and looked down when he spoke to her; then up, sudden glossy smile, soft hair falling past her thin shoulders.)

A little later, when the noise reached a new crescendo, Brent leaned in, voice going a little sly. "You don't know that for sure, though. That they're not doing it on anything we have to touch."

Spencer frowned at him.

"I bet they do it on your bunk," Brent continued, eyes glinting, "I bet Ryan insists- ow!"

"You completely deserved that."

Brent rubbed the side of his head resentfully. "Fuck off."

"Yeah, yeah," Spencer said, putting down his phone. "Tv?"

"Please," Brent said. "Do you think they realize what time it is?" His tone turned plaintive. "Why do they have to be so fucking _loud_?"

Spencer turned the bus television on, turning up the volume. He'd like to know that, too, because he knew that Ryan could be quiet during sex if he needed (wanted) to be. Ryan's deep moans should not be competing with the blare of the tv.

Either he was doing it on purpose, or Brendon was just that good, something Spencer would really rather not think about.

Or maybe Ryan just didn't care that they might be able to overhear.

"At least they weren't pulling this shit when we were recording," Brent said, "because if they were being this selfish when we were all crammed into that little apartment -

Spencer snorted. "They'd both be a lot less pretty in the face right now. Or six feet under."

Brent nodded and upped the volume of the television.

"- oh fuck, _harder_-" echoed through the walls, and yeah, they weren't even trying to keep quiet.

"You know what?" Brent slammed down the remote. "That's fucking it, I'm going to go sleep on The Academy's bus."

When the door slammed shut, the whole bus resounded with the crash.

The Academy were always free with their bunks, and couches, and floors. And their alcohol, but of course it wasn't like that would influence Brent's decisions _at all_-

\- and Spencer was being nasty because he was tired and pissed off; he didn't actually blame Brent for bailing, not even a little bit, because this really sucked.

The Academy were free with a lot of things. Spencer's noticed the way Ryan's eyes followed William Beckett (MikeTomSiskaButcher_Jon_), but that wasn't his problem anymore.

("So, it's okay with you?" Brendon had asked anxiously. "Me and Ryan?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Spencer had said calmly, opening his eyes wide. "I'm his best friend, not his _mother._"

"Well, um, okay then," Brendon had said, and had grinned in a happy stupid way which had kind of made Spencer want to punch him. And then Brendon had frowned and added "What, so you're straight?"

"Well, yeah, _duh_." Spencer had used his best 'oh my god you are an idiot' voice, the one he reserved especially for Brendon and for talking to people who thought that they could patronize or bullshit him just because he was technically, numerically only eighteen.

"Oh," Brendon had said, head tilted to the side, "I guess you'd be the one to know, huh?")

Spencer buried his face under a pillow and tried to get to sleep.

Ryan sounded like he was having fun, anyway. So did Brendon.

*

That was the best (worst) part; they were happy. They held hands under the table when the bus stopped at diners; Brendon hauled Ryan onto his lap when they all watched tv in the lounge, and even though he squirmed and tried to escape, Spencer could tell from the curve of his cheek that he was perfectly happy where he was.

They were still finding candy hearts under the bunks, down the upholstery of the bus couches, crushed into the floor, the debris from Brendon's latest Brilliant Romantic Idea. It was, they were: overdramatic, a little demented, and really fucking sweet. Even Brent thought so (when they weren't pissing him off by keeping the rest of the band up at night and worse, out of their own bunks), exchanging mostly-tolerant eye rolls and reluctant smiles with Spencer when Brendon swept along the hallway of their latest venue, humming Disney scores and trying to make Ryan dance with him.

Spencer told himself how ridiculous, how sweet it was when he found sticky pieces of crumbled candy stuck in the treads of his sneakers. Ryan deserved candy hearts and hand holding and _harder, harder_, instead of -

*

He was woken up not long after; at first, he wasn't sure what by, at first, but as his eyes adjusted to the dim, pupils straining, he realized that the door to the bunks was open and Ryan was standing in the doorway.

Spencer could barely even make out that there was someone standing there, but he knew that it was Ryan. Brendon couldn't be so quiet, for one, and also, he just knew. Would know it was Ryan even with his eyes closed to the dark, just from the soundless, still way he held himself sometimes, like he wanted to disappear.

Spencer didn't move, just watched through his eyelashes as Ryan padded forward into the room. He moved quietly, like he was trying not to wake Spencer up, but that ship had sailed, and it wasn't like Ryan had been especially worried about Spencer's rest _earlier_. Typical Ryan; he meant well, he just didn't think.

And then Ryan was standing right in front of him, close enough for Spencer to tell, even in the near-blackness, that he wasn't wearing a shirt, just a pair of boxers low on his hips.

"What're you doing?" Spencer asked quietly.

Ryan jumped. "_Fuck_, Spencer."

Spencer propped himself up on his elbow until he was half-upright on the couch, and looked at Ryan.

"I can't sleep." In the dark, Spencer couldn't _see_ him shrug, not properly, but it was there in the tiny, almost imperceptible huff of breath, the faint not-quite whisper of skin.

"I just- " Ryan wrapped his arms around himself, and bit his lip. "I just need- "

Spencer didn't move, or say anything more, and after a second Ryan sighed and said, "Fine. Whatever," and began to turn away.

"Ryan," Spencer said, sitting up, and he wasn't sure what he would have said next, although it probably wouldn't have been something that Ryan wanted to hear - but that was enough, apparently, because the tension melted out of Ryan's shoulders.

"Spencer," Ryan said, "Spence," and stood there stopped awkwardly, hovering on the edge of some decision, hands knotting uneasily at his sides.

"Yeah," Spencer said, not quite a question, and after another pause Ryan sat down on the edge of the couch, hands on his knees.

"Hey," he said, and then leaned in, quick, and pressed his mouth awkwardly against the soft skin under Spencer's jaw, like it was still an acceptable greeting.

Spencer went stiff, pulse beating quick as a small frightened animal's. It had been months since Ryan and Brendon had climbed out of the backseat of their old van with swollen mouths and flushed cheeks, blinking, months since he said, _Ryan, I don't care. Really. It's perfect, it's. You know, it's good._ Months since Ryan had stopped touching him with any more intimacy than the incidental, friendly way he touched Brent. (Had touched Brent; Brent had never been tactile, and lately, he radiated _touch me not_, shoulders drawn stiffly in, stepping back when any of them got too close, clapped his shoulder, forgot the new invisible lines).

The skin under his jaw was wet from Ryan's mouth, gone shockingly cold in the night air.

"Spencer," Ryan said very, very quietly and Spencer could see that he was biting his lip, trying hard not be heard. And that was enough to stop him still, stop him from doing something stupid like jerk Ryan's head up, forward, until he could kiss him hard enough to bruise, hard enough to take away the taste of Brendon, the mix of sex and salt and old cologne clinging to Ryan's hair and skin.

Instead, he leaned his forehead chastely against Ryan's, like they'd done when they were little, sharing secrets. "No," Spencer said quietly. "No, Ryan, wicked bad idea."

Ryan blinked at him, solemn as an owl. "I - yeah." His breath was hot on Spencer's face; they breathed together, in the dark.

"Yeah," Spencer echoed. "Brendon."

"Yeah."

 

**iii. the sun sets in the east (early 2005)**

The practice space they were renting was a step up from Spencer's grandmother's living room. They were going somewhere now, they knew it (Pete Wentz himself had said so, just last weekend, certain and self-assured over the phone, and very far away).

"This isn't working," Ryan said, looking frustrated. He tore off his guitar, but didn't throw it to the ground, or smash it up, or whatever rock stars were supposed to do. Instead he looked at it helplessly, fingers sliding along its neck, and finally propped it up tenderly against the wall. He shut his eyes.

Ryan was the one who was supposed to _believe_, more than any of them.

"Maybe we could play that bridge again," Spencer offered, "but in a faster tempo?"

"Time's nearly up," Brent put in. "Come on, I have a date with my girlfriend tonight. If this isn't working, can we just go early?"

"No," Ryan snapped, and "_No_," Brendon said vehemently.

Ryan took a deep breath, hands knotting into fists, and then opened his eyes. "We'll go through it another time. Normal speed, and if you fuck it up, I fucking _swear_ -"

He left the threat unfinished, picking his guitar up again. Spencer started up the drums, and this time, it went better. Ryan even almost smiled when they'd finished, pushing hair out of his eyes impatiently.

Brendon believed, too. His t-shirt was faintly mottled from going through the washer wrong, a casualty of the 'learn as you go' approach to doing laundry. (At least, he joked, he didn't have to get up early in the mornings for church anymore. "More time," he grinned, a little manic, "more time to do my _washing_, Spencer Smith!")

"That was better," Ryan allowed, and Brent looked relieved.

"Four songs," Brendon said, knocking his knuckles against Ryan's in triumph. "We can tweak the bridge a bit, maybe, but. Four songs!" He smiled. His eyes were ringed with shadows, too many hours _working practicing working at school working._

"June," Spencer said. "That's not far away, Brendon, it's not long at all."

"June," Ryan repeated, and he wasn't looking at Spencer at all, but somewhere past his shoulder, eyes gone dark and distant. "The whole world's going to change."

Brent looked at his shoes, frowning.

"_We're_ going to change it," Brendon said confidently. "The world will be our - not our oyster, they're fucking gross. What the fuck do you do with a huge-ass oyster, anyway? The world will be our _Rushmore_, we just need to carve it out." He grinned, bouncing up and down a little on the rubbery thick soles of his sneakers.

"Sure," Ryan said, but he smiled when he looked down at the floor, like he wanted to hide it.

"Oh, you know it," Brendon told him, and padded over to the keyboard again, fingers flickering over the keys. "See, if we change that hook slightly, like _this_\- "

"Huh," Ryan said, coming to stand behind him, "maybe - "

Brendon tugged him down onto the bench with him, and they sat there fiddling with the latest song, Ryan scribbling in pencil in his little notebook, noting key changes.

Brent trudged over to where the drums were set up, and slumped miserably against the wall. "I'm going to be late," he complained. "I fucking hate Wednesday practice. At least tomorrow we have someone coming in straight after."

"Go, then," Spencer suggested, and Brent made a face at him.

"Ryan'll hurt me."

They laughed.

Over at the keyboard, Brendon grabbed Ryan's hands and tried to move them on the keys, arm reaching around Ryan's waist, thumbs resting on the insides of his wrists. Ryan tried to play the bridge, Brendon guiding his fingers and laughing into Ryan's shoulder, his neck.

Brent tilted his head. "You think they're - you know?"

"_No_," Spencer said at once.

"Okay, okay," Brent said, looking honestly confused by Spencer's vehemence. "I was just asking. You know Ryan's kind of - kind of like that, don't you?"

"Duh," Spencer said tiredly. "I know. I don't _care_." He'd explain properly, but he felt incredibly weary, and it wasn't like Brent would get it anyway. He wouldn't even be that shocked, that wasn't the problem, he just. Wouldn't get it.

Brent blinked at him, and when Spencer didn't say anything else, he shrugged. "I'm going to pack up. It's getting late."

Spencer nodded, and when Brent moved away he started to pack up his drums, carefully make sure that his toms were tied on and covered. Ryan came up behind him.

"Hey," Ryan said, and he wasn't exactly pressed up against Spencer's back, just sort of hovering half at his shoulder, but Spencer could still feel the warmth of his skin radiating through their t-shirts.

"Hey." Spencer ducked his head. Over in the corner, Brent was loosening the strings on his bass, and nodding absently, amiably while Brendon held an animated conversation with himself. Neither of them were watching.

"I could," Ryan tilted his head, flicking hair out of his eyes, "I could stay at your place tonight, maybe, if you wanted."

"One of my sisters is having a sleepover tonight," Spencer explained, making a face. "You don't want to be there for that. _I_ don't want to be there for that."

Ryan laughed softly, bumping his shoulder against Spencer's. "Yeah. No, that'd suck."

"I could stay at yours," Spencer suggested, "if you think -"

Ryan bit his lip. "Yeah, he won't be back 'til late, and he won't notice when he does - yeah. Come over." He grinned. "You can sleep on my _floor._"

"Yay," Spencer said dryly. "And sneak out of your window?"

"I can even make sandwiches for dinner, or something," Ryan told him. "Awesome, right?"

"Totally."

*

Ryan's bed was a lot more comfortable than his floor. Spencer hadn't had to sleep on Ryan's floor since he was sixteen, although even before then Ryan had usually let him sleep up with him. (Spencer's mom still put the camp bed out for Ryan every time he stayed with Spencer; they never used it now, although they rumpled it authentically. It was kind of funny.)

Ryan's bed was a little less comfortable when Spencer said something stupid and its owner stopped lazily making out in order to glare at him so forcefully Spencer could almost feel it boring into his skull.

'I haven't slept with Brendon," Ryan said tightly.

"But you want to."

Ryan gave him a distinctly dirty look, edged with icicles. "No, I - why the fuck are you even asking me this?"

Spencer made a helpless motion with his hands. "I don't fucking know. I was just wondering, I guess."

"Well, don't," Ryan said, and he still sounded annoyed, but he rolled his hips against Spencer's thigh in a way that could be mistaken for forgiveness.

"Mmm," Spencer said, and bit Ryan's shoulder lightly through the ancient Fall Out Boy t-shirt he was wearing, so well worn that if it had been Spencer's, it would have been thrown away by his mother long ago. Of course, Ryan's mother wasn't - yeah. Spencer happened to know that Ryan slept in that shirt, sometimes.

"You slept with Pete, though," he said, and was struck by the odd flatness of his own voice, the fact that Ryan was still moving against his leg and making small soft sounds. "When he came down here to hear us."

Ryan went still. "What the _fuck_, Spencer," he said sharply. "I'm trying to - what the _fuck_."

"You did, though," Spencer said.

"Is that what this is about?" Ryan rolled away onto his back. "It was _Pete Wentz_." He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world, like he was invoking the name of a minor deity. "He didn't fuck me, though. Jeez. I just went down on him a couple of times, that's about as much as he's into."

Spencer wanted to say, _starfucker_, or less pithily, _no wonder he wants to sign us_. But he wasn't that cruel, and he knew it wasn't true, because fuck it, they _were_ that good. And also, Ryan would totally punch him. Probably right in the throat, or somewhere even more painful.

Instead he said, "That's not what this is about - fuck. I don't even know, Ryan."

"Are you - are you actually jealous?" Ryan asked disbelievingly. "Seriously? Now? I've had actual _girlfriends_ and you haven't been jealous. _You've_ had girlfriends."

"I know."

"You're so fucking weird," Ryan told him, although he didn't sound as annoyed as before, and rested his head against Spencer's shoulder.

"You do want to fuck Brendon, though," Spencer said, and wow, he obviously really didn't want to get off tonight. Thoughts were spilling from his brain to his mouth with no actual censoring process in between.

Ryan turned his head to glare at him, his back arching like that of an affronted cat. "Maybe, yeah, like. Like, aesthetically. But I don't _need_ to. Anyway, he's straight - he's a fucking _Mormon._"

"I'm straight." Spencer felt obliged to point this out.

"Yeah," Ryan said, sounding tired. He ran a finger lightly down Spencer's cheek, resting softly at the corner of his mouth. "You are."

"This isn't - this is because we're _us_," Spencer said, and not only was his brain-mouth filter completely nonexistent, he wasn't making any sense, even to himself.

"I _know_, shut up already," Ryan said. His hands were rough and quick at the waistband of Spencer's jeans, pulling his fly down, tugging at his boxers.

Spencer lay back, obediently silent as Ryan bent his head down, spread his legs apart a little further. His hand rested peaceably on the back of Ryan's neck, fingers brushing over the soft skin of his nape.

 

**ii. your secret's safe to keep (early 2004) **

"You did this last year, right?"

Ryan glanced over at Spencer's algebra homework and grimaced. "Yeah, but it's math," he said, "You know I'm not going to be any help there."

They'd been playing mix cds and doing homework on Ryan's floor; and then Ryan had come across a dusty clutch of ancient mix tapes that they'd made when they were ten or eleven or so. Ryan's old cassette player had been hustled out of the depths of his closet, just so they could revisit their sucky late nineties taste in music. ("Old mixtapes are the new vinyl," Ryan had declared, as the Counting Crows came on. Some things never changed. "No, they fucking aren't." "Yeah, but they will be." "Never happen," Spencer told him comfortably.)

Spencer was sitting with his legs folded and Ryan's guitar in his lap, glaring at the math homework spread out before him on the floor and playing a few mangled chords over and over.

"What about English?" Spencer asked.

Ryan squinted. "That depends," he said, "what are you studying?" He rifled through Spencer's backpack and laughed. "To Kill A Mockingbird, right. Yeah, I totally covered it, like, back _freshman_ year. Maybe junior high."

Spencer played a spectacularly dissonant cord, and Ryan let the book drop.

"That's just - hey, give me that," he said, looking revolted that someone, anyone, even Spencer, could coax sound like that out of his baby, and reached over to pull it into his lap and into safety.

Spencer was the one who started it this time. They were just listening, and when the tape crackled and the song changed from a lame rock band they'd sort of liked when they were ten, into an ancient radio rip of something techno, all slow, blaring beats, Ryan turned his head to smile at him, wry and bright, and Spencer just -

Just leaned over and pressed his mouth against Ryan's, their noses bumping against each other, Ryan's lips dry and closed under his.

Ryan blinked at him, startled, and that looked weird close-up; but he didn't pull away. He tipped his head, instead, lips parting, and Spencer moved forward to kiss him more thoroughly. "Hey," Ryan said, "wait," and pushed him away, long enough to pull the guitar strap over his head and lay his guitar carefully onto the ground. "Okay, now we're good," and he laid his hand cautiously on the curve of Spencer's neck.

Spencer fisted his hand in Ryan's gray school shirt, _B_ and _G_ embroidered on the breast pocket in blue and marigold, and then they were kissing properly, tongues and teeth, hands on each other's shoulders, in each other's hair.

Spencer had never counted the very, very first time, because that had just been dumb, and it wasn't like tongue had been involved. His very first kiss, then, he attributed to a girl in his history class with long, soft brown hair, who tasted a lot like gum and smelled like baby powder. The first time he'd actually, properly kissed Ryan, the only other actual time they'd kissed, Ryan had kissed _him. _

(Nearly two weeks ago, not that he'd been thinking about it or anything. They'd been walking along, eating Ben and Jerry's, and Ryan had been bitching about the fact that his car was in the shop.

"- so fucking _stupid_, having to walk everywhere, fucking slow, I don't know why my dad won't let me drive his car, it's not like-"

"Yeah, yeah," Spencer had said comfortably. "Dude, if I'd know that walking up to the store was that hard for you, I would've tried harder to get my mom to give me her keys."

"I'm just cold," Ryan had admitted, and Spencer had grinned. Ryan was always cold this time of year, his long fingers pinched blue in the late winter wind, always wrapped up in scarves and gloves and hats, swaddled in overlarge hoodies.

"Do you want my scarf?" he'd asked, starting to unwind it already, and settled it around Ryan's thin shoulders at his small nod.

"Thanks," Ryan had said, and then he had leaned in, his breath white on the air, and pressed his lips to Spencer's cheek; Spencer had shifted, and Ryan caught instead the corner of his mouth. And that was when they should have stepped away, laughed, but instead Ryan had put his hand on Spencer's shoulder and tilted his head. He'd tasted mostly of New York Super Fudge Chunk, sweet and cold, still clutching his cardboard carton of ice cream in his free hand. His nose had been chilly against Spencer's cheek, and the flickering hint of his tongue had been warm.)

This was the first time Spencer had kissed _him_, and now they were making out, actually properly making out, on the floor of Ryan's bedroom; Ryan had pushed him back against the floor, swinging one leg over Spencer's hips and, and fucking _straddling_ him. The carpet rubbed against his back where his shirt and jeans gapped, and not only was he getting hard, he could feel Ryan hard against him, through their jeans.

And that was so, _so_ weird, but the making out - wasn't. Spencer pushed Ryan's t-shirt up, his hands sliding over his stomach, his ribs, his back as Ryan kissed him like he was jealous of the air in his lungs.

Spencer was sixteen and he'd never had his hands on so much of anyone's skin before. (The girl in history class talked about Pokemon with him and always shared her gum, but she'd frozen up when they made out and he'd tried to slip his hand under her shirt, although she hadn't seemed to mind him groping her breasts through the layers of her t-shirt and bra. Girls were weird). Ryan's back, his stomach were smooth, and when one of Spencer's hands slid over his nipple, almost by mistake, Ryan gasped into his mouth.

"Can we," he said, and then he was pushing Spencer off. Spencer frowned at him until he realized that Ryan was just pulling him up onto his bed, pulling his t-shirt off all the way, pulling at Spencer's.

"Okay," Spencer managed, "cool," and then they were lying side-by side on Ryan's bed, his dumb Midtown and Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance (and Blink, always Blink) posters leering down at them.

Spencer kind of wanted to laugh, now that he was lying there just staring at Ryan, the both of them still breathing hard. On the wall, Gerard Way glared at them, white showing around his eyes. But he couldn't stop looking at Ryan's mouth, and he didn't mean to, but suddenly he was reaching over to touch Ryan's stomach, the thin soft skin over his ribs.

Ryan shut his eyes. "Spence." He sounded strangely choked.

"Yeah," Spencer said, pulling his hand away. Ryan bit his lip.

"Can I," a pause, and then a sudden rush of words, "can I jerk you off?"

""Um." That sounded like such a good idea it was kind of incredible; his jeans were already uncomfortable, and Ryan just had to make that worse. "Yeah. Yeah, like I'm going to say no."

"Cool," Ryan said shakily, and then his fingers were on Spencer's fly, popping the button open. His zipper parted with a muted roar, and then Ryan was pushing his boxers down - Spencer lifted his hips - and his hand was on Spencer's dick.

His best friend was giving him a handjob, and Spencer wasn't sure what the fuck he was supposed to do. It was like the kissing, awkward and strange but really fucking hot.

Ryan was serious about it, too; frowning, concentrating, lower lip caught in his teeth as Spencer bucked forward into his hand.

And then he stopped, and Spencer whined at him, because seriously, that wasn't fair.

"Hey, just," Ryan grabbed his hand, and placed it on his own jeans. "Could you."

"Yeah," Spencer agreed, fumbling Ryan's jeans open, and then Ryan's hand was back on him.

After, Spencer felt so self-conscious he could die, watching Ryan reach for the tissues beside his bed and wipe his hands clean. He'd made some really, really stupid noises, in front of his best friend, and then he'd actually come into his hand and a little bit onto his stomach. And maybe Ryan hadn't sounded exactly intelligent himself, and he made a mess too, but.

Fuck.

"Here," Ryan said, tossing Spencer the box, and Spencer ducked his head and tried to clean up. He wasn't sure what to say; as unobtrusively, as quickly as he could, he tugged his boxers back up and fastened his jeans, sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"I thought you were staying over," Ryan said softly. It wasn't anywhere near properly night yet; through the bedroom window the sky was the faded blue of late afternoon, deepening into dusk. He couldn't properly make out Ryan's features in the thin, poor light.

"Do you want me to?"

"Duh." Ryan tugged at his arm imperiously, and Spencer let himself be pulled back down onto Ryan's bed. They lay together staring at the ceiling, breathing evenly, and after a few minutes Ryan's long fingers started tracing tickling patterns over his breastbone.

"What're you doing?" Spencer asked, squinting down at his chest.

"I'm drawing," Ryan told him, in the tone of one stating the overbearingly obvious.

"Drawing what?" Spencer could remember playing this game in, like, kindergarten, drawing on the backs of kids in front of you, having them draw on your back, having to guess the picture from the touch. He shut his eyes.

"Nothing," Ryan said, _curve line sharp turn line curve_, "I'm just being stupid." He laughed quietly. "Now I'm drawing you an 's.'" _Curve, curve_.

"For Superman," Spencer mumbled.

"No, for stupid."

_Curve line sharp turn line curve_, one curve ending where the other began, angled into each other.

He couldn't open his eyes even if he wanted to. "What's that one? You did that one before."

Ryan kissed his shoulder, nuzzled along Spencer's collarbone to bury his nose in the notch at the base of his throat.

"Your nose is fucking cold," Spencer told him sleepily.

"I know," Ryan said, and then, "I'll tell you later, shut up and sleep already," and maybe you'd have to be Spencer, know Ryan _that_ well, to hear the happiness that was lurking under his usual monotone, the thin melody hidden under the thud of the bassline.

 

**i. the world would write upon (early 2003)**

"Salamanders can re-grow their limbs," Ryan said. "That's why it's such a cool name."

"Are you sure?" Spencer asked, squinting at the screen. "I thought that was geckos."

"Both, I think," Ryan said finally. "It doesn't have to be one or the other." His thin fingers jerked on the game console, and Spencer's avatar hit the ropes.

"It would be better if they actually breathed fire, though," Spencer said. "I mean, re-growing a leg or a tail, that's cool, but it's a passive superpower. Defensive. You can't win when you're fighting defensively."

"It could be a winning superpower," Ryan disagreed. "If the bad guy had your leg caught in a trap, or his enormous metal claw, and you could just, just shed the limb, it would be awesome."

Spencer turned his head from the television screen and attempted to give Ryan a withering look.

Ryan dismissively flicked his eyes at him, and then back to the screen.

"Sorry, man," Spencer said, "There's like, even a comic. In my dad's box of old comics, there's this ancient issue of Teen Titans, and this guy with detachable limbs tries to join, and they reject him like a _loser._"

"Fuck off," Ryan said.

"He pulled off his limbs and beat villains with them," Spencer added. "Lame."

Ryan scowled. "Whatever."

Spencer kicked his leg until Ryan admitted grudgingly, "Okay, lame."

"I'll show you," Spencer said, magnanimous in victory. "My dad's comics are ancient. He was showing me all last weekend, some go back to like the sixties."

Ryan didn't say anything, but focused on his attention on the game. The line of his throat was different these days, his adam's apple bobbing when he swallowed.

"…sorry," Spencer said awkwardly. "Is yours being an asshole right now?"

Ryan shrugged. "Not that much more than usual."

"You want to stay over?"

"Your mom probably wants to charge me rent now," Ryan said, but he didn't say no.

"She _doesn't care_," Spencer said. "Really. Watch." He paused the game and got up from the couch and padded over to the door. "Mom, is it okay if Ryan sleeps over tonight?" he yelled down the hallway.

"Sure," his mother called back. "The clean sheets are at the bottom of the hall cupboard, if you're going to make up the camp bed. Ask Ryan if he minds that we're calling pizza for dinner."

"He doesn't mind!" Spencer bellowed, and then closed the door, throwing himself back down in his former position next to Ryan on the couch. "See?"

"Thanks," Ryan said, looking up through his fringe. He sounded huskier than usual, but Spencer couldn't be sure whether that was because they were having a manly bonding moment, or whether he just still hadn't gotten used to the weirdness of Ryan's new deep voice, harsh and hoarse, like a baby bird. Spencer's voice had definitely dropped in pitch this year, but it was nothing compared to Ryan's. Ryan was shaving, too, but he'd been doing that since he turned fifteen over a year ago, more out of hopeful anticipation than necessity.

"So that's what you were doing on the weekend," Ryan said. "Looking at comics with your dad?"

"Yeah," Spencer admitted.

"No, it's nice," Ryan said. "You know." He bumped Spencer's shoulder with his own.

"What were you doing?" Spencer asked. "Did you go to that kid's party?"

"Yeah," Ryan said, and he sat up straighter on the couch. "Yeah, and it kind of sucked, the music was so bad. You would've hated it. But I ended up talking to this really hot girl, Cathy something, Cathy Hall? I think she's at your school, the class above you." He stopped, looking smug.

"Yeah?" Spencer said slowly.

"We hooked up," Ryan said with studied casualness. "We made out for, like, three hours."

"You going out now?"

Ryan deflated a little bit. "No. She has a boyfriend, I think. At your school."

"Oh," Spencer said. "Sorry."

Ryan shrugged, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands. "It's okay. It was just, you know. Making out."

"Yeah," Spencer said awkwardly again.

"Or don't know," Ryan amended.

"Shut up," Spencer said, and kicked Ryan's ankle.

"I'm only saying."

"Dude, I'd rather wait than make out with Cathy. I heard she gave, like, half her year mono back in fall."

"Fuck you," Ryan said amiably.

"I mean, _Cathy Hall._ That's desperate."

"It was _making out_," Ryan said, slow and patient. "There's no bad."

"Whatever." Spencer tapped his foot against the floor.

"You just don't get it," Ryan said, and for a second Spencer thought seriously about shoving him off the couch, because there was nothing as maddening, as _fucking annoying_, as Ryan when he tried to sound knowledgeable because he was, wow, one entire year older.

"I could show you," he offered carelessly. His hands were hidden inside the sleeves of his hoodie again, opening and closing under the fabric like underwater flowers.

"Sure," Spencer said dryly, and rolled his eyes.

"No, really," Ryan said, and Spencer wished he'd just drop it, wished that he didn't sound so weirdly fucking earnest. He gave him his best _are you for real_ expression.

"It shouldn't even be a big deal," Ryan said. "Look, just."

Ryan leaned in, _right_ in, and Spencer could feel Ryan's breath blazing warm against his cheek. He shut his eyes, because that seemed like the right thing to do, and waited. He ended up a couple of seconds, and that was enough. If Ryan was playing a joke on him, Spencer would make him really, really regret it.

He cracked one eye open. "Dude, are you going to-"

Ryan was really, really close, and just. Looking.

Spencer was about to move away, or forward, just stop Ryan _looking_ at him like that, anything, when Ryan jerked forward and his mouth was suddenly there, brushing against Spencer's.

It felt weirdly soft. Spencer had never really thought about how someone else's lips would actually _feel_, but they were definitely softer than he would have guessed. His own felt hypersensitive, stripped. He tilted his head a little and their mouths slid against each other, god, and he felt with a shock the graze of Ryan's faint stubble against his skin. And yeah, the stubble felt undeniably weird- and then it was gone, and so was the brief heat of Ryan's breath.

Spencer opened his eyes - he hadn't even realized that he'd closed them again. Ryan was staring carefully at Spencer's shoulder and he definitely looked strange.

Spencer licked his lips on reflex, and Ryan's eyes followed the movement. Spencer watched Ryan watch his mouth; then he caught his eye and for a moment, while they stared at each other, it was the weirdest thing yet; everything seemed subtly wrong and uncomfortable and set just off-kilter, the world set off its tilting axis by a fraction of a degree.

Spencer had always felt like he'd been friends with Ryan since _forever_, since his memories from before he was five were distant and blurred and more gaps than recollections, but right at that moment of dislocation it was almost like sitting next to a stranger. Spencer couldn't remember ever feeling awkward around Ryan before.

They looked at each other, and the moment folded between them like paper and they started to laugh. The tension didn't merely break; it exploded into warmth and mist. Ryan's eyes went pressed shut with laughter. He sounded kind of like a dying animal. Spencer wasn't sure whether he sounded any better, because the laughter tore at the back of his throat a little, made him choke.

"Oh man," Ryan said finally, still grinning, "that was _weird._"

Spencer rolled his eyes at him. "Of course it was weird."

"What do you mean, 'of course'?" Ryan sounded mildly offended. "I'm a good kisser, I just wasn't trying. I didn't even open my mouth."

"Wow, thanks," Spencer said, and flicked his forehead.

Ryan jabbed his shoulder. "Hey, you looked like you were categorizing it, you know, taking notes in your head. Like it was an experiment. For _science_."

"We. We need to stop talking about this," Spencer said feelingly.

"Yeah," Ryan agreed. "Can we play Grand Theft Auto again? The Miami one?"

"You always want to play that," Spencer grumbled, but he handed Ryan the console anyway, and sat back and watched him take on pixilated hookers and pizza delivery boys.

"It's cool," Ryan said nearly ten minutes later, trying to extricate his avatar from a nasty run in with a gang, "that we can - that we're such good friends, we can just _do that_, you know? And it doesn't fuck anything up."

"Yeah," Spencer said, and rubbed his palms against his thighs. The denim felt oddly smooth under his hands. "Yeah, we're good."


End file.
